


Alison and Her Robot vs. Theophany and Number 48

by ModernWizard



Series: Alison Wonderland [4]
Category: Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka
Genre: AND ALSO badass as fuck, Alison's robot, All white people look alike, And they wuvs and respect each other very much, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Because some of the BDSM etiquette in here is abysmal, Because they're you know SENSIBLE people, Christmas, Christmas Party, Consensual Kink, Did I mention bad BDSM etiquette?, Except for those few she remembers the names of, Featuring Ainsley Carruthers the classics chair, Fluff, Gen, HORRIBLE BDSM Etiquette, He's making friends in the classics department, Humor, Kinky Alison, Kinky Master, Latin, Latin Grammar, Mind-boggling BDSM stupidity, Never argue semantics with someone who read the dictionary when she was a kid, Not between Alison and the Magister though, Other, So Alison calls all the women Sarah and all the men Steve, So is Alison, The Magister's Domina, The Master is teaching Latin at a university under the name Max Thascalos, Who proves that you can be mild-mannered and soft-spoken and incredibly polite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25596841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernWizard/pseuds/ModernWizard
Summary: Alison Cheney is back on Earth for a while. She accompanied the Doctor and the Master on several interstellar adventures, but the mental invasions that she suffered have taken their toll. She needs to rest and recuperate. She tried to do so at her parents’ house, but they drove her up the wall, so she has moved in with the Master. He’s cleverly disguised as a classics professor at a university in the rural U.S. state of Vermont.The classics department’s holiday party rolls around. What will Alison do as the center of attention at a nearly all-White party? How does she react when someone assumes that she’s the Master’s former student and current spouse? What’s the best Latin translation for We Three Kings?And the most burning of all questions: What happens when the departmental admin shows up, introduces her boyfriend as her Master, and demands that everyone call him that?
Relationships: Alison Cheney & The Master (Doctor Who), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Series: Alison Wonderland [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/710001
Kudos: 4





	Alison and Her Robot vs. Theophany and Number 48

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a writer who wrote to the work advice column, _Ask a Manager,_ about their coworker, who wanted everyone -- _everyone!_ \-- to call her [cough] associate [cough] [_Master_.](https://www.askamanager.org/2016/09/my-coworker-wants-us-to-call-her-boyfriend-her-master.html) Yeah, you read that right, and, yeah, it's as hilarious/horrifying/embarrassing as you think it is. [The person wrote in [later](https://www.askamanager.org/2016/12/update-my-coworker-wants-us-to-call-her-boyfriend-her-master.html) with an equally jaw-dropping update.]

“I don’t believe it!” At the end of her robot’s story, Alison shakes her head. A gust of wind comes up from the flat, freezing waters of Lake Champlain, and the head shake turns into a shiver. It hasn’t really snowed a lot here in Burlington, Vermont, yet at the beginning of December, but it sure feels like it should be snowing. She draws the hood of her black velvet, skull-lined cape closer about her and walks fast. [Well, okay, technically the cape belongs to her robot, but she has borrowed it so often that it might as well be hers.]

Alison squints at her robot, the Magister, who strides beside her, hand entwined in hers. Though she has longer legs and he’s slightly shorter, he matches her pace. His ermine-trimmed cape [mostly for show, since, as a robot, he really doesn’t need insulation] unfurls about his short, stocky form. It’s a cloudless — therefore extra cold — night of biting air, with no moonlight by which she can admire him. She sees only his profile, dominated by a long, sharp peak of a nose. Well, that’s one of his many favorite features of his, so she can’t help but grin.

Anyway, Alison knows that the Magister no longer lies as he used to when he was a universal supervillain, mostly because untruths offend his sense of precision and exactitude. So he can’t be making up what he just told her. All the same, it sounds incredible. “I mean — kinky sex and bdsm and roleplay and all that are pretty taboo,” she says.

“I know,” says her robot dryly, his voice deep and rich. He’s an alien from Gallifrey, a Time Dork [because he doesn’t need further ego inflation by being called a Time  _ Lord]. _ He has no interest in sex himself, but the kinky practices of humans interest him. “I have written extensively on the subject — and practiced it as well.”

“Most kinky people I’ve met don’t even tell their other kinky friends what names they have for their partners,” Alison goes on. “Like you don’t tell me what you and the Doctor do, and I’m cool with that.” 

The Magister has another partner besides her, a fellow Time Dork, his inevitable spouse the Doctor. Their long history of contentious frenemyship changed when the Magister died saving the Doctor’s life and the Doctor brought him back in robotic form. Realizing how much affection they shared, they turned their violent mutual torture into less dangerous, but still incredibly kinky, games.

“As am I. This way.” Nodding his head to the right, the Magister pulls Alison around the corner. Though they head east, uphill and away from the raw exposure of the lake, the wind seems to follow them, rattling old leaves on the shriveled ground. He feels Alison’s shiver through their interlinked hands. “Don’t worry. Ainsley’s house is but five minutes’ walk. We’ll be there soon.”

Yeah, but that’s precisely  _ why _ I’m worried, Alison answers him inside her head, clamping more strongly onto his hand. She pursues her original subject, trying to distract herself. “And, if you and the Doctor have some special terms for each other, you don’t make  _ me _ call you that,” she continues, “just like I’d never, ever, ever want anyone but you to call me  _ Domina.” _

“And I would permit only you to call me  _ mi Magistre,” _ he says, using the vocative for  _ Magister of mine. _

Alison met the Time Dorks about two years ago when she was twenty-five. She, seeking equality and power, found the Magister much more promising than her boyfriend at the time, Joe. The Magister, who disliked his dependence on the Doctor for maintenance and his inability to leave Anima, the Doctor’s TARDIS, found in Alison someone who treated him as a person. Lonely and desperate, Alison and the Magister forged a kinky, non-sexual partnership defined by a contract of detailed standards that kept them both safe and whole and happy. They have their names  _ [Domina _ for her,  _ Magister _ for him], their safeword  _ [tace, _ meaning  _ silence], _ and a deep commitment to honor, obey, and defend each other.

“Right! Because we’re, you know, sensible people who realize that it’s a good idea to follow the social contract on this one,” Alison says, “just like the vast majority of people who do kinky stuff. And  _ that’s _ why I don’t believe you. I have never, ever,  _ ever _ heard of any kinky person going around, telling their coworkers that their boyfriend is their  _ Master _ and everyone has to call him that. That’s just...just...beyond offensive. That’s like catastrophic levels of stupidity.”

“And yet,” says the Magister, who sounds like he’s smirking, though Alison can’t see him well, “that’s exactly what I experienced this afternoon after my seminar.” 

Having found a way to leave Anima, he did so shortly after Alison, unhappy with the mental invasions she has experienced, did as well. Both the Magister and Alison now live separately from the Doctor in the Magister’s snarky TARDIS Scintilla. Masquerading as a split-level ranch in Burlington, Vermont, Scintilla shelters the Magister while he teaches Latin under the name  _ Max Thascalos _ at the University of Vermont. At some point in the future, they will reunite with the Doctor and continue their adventures through space and time, but right now they’re enjoying some mundanity.

“Was she trying to stir up drama for the party or something?” Nearly power walking now, Alison and her robot are heading to the home of the classics chair for a nominal holiday party that’s actually a Christmas party with the serial numbers filed down. Alison wants to escape the cold. However, she’s a uni dropout hurrying into a house full of PhDs who know more of her favorite language, Latin, than she does. Staying outside might be preferable. At least it would be less daunting.

“I doubt she’ll attend,” replies the Magister. “Her [cough]  _ associate  _ [cough] was taking her home because she was sick. A pity — then you would at least have had something to laugh at.”

This whole conversation has an extra level of something — either irony or absurdity or possibly both — because the Magister’s actual name is what Theophany wants everyone to call her associate. The Magister is literally  _ the Master, _ with a title/name in the same style as the Doctor’s. He used to insist that everyone call him that, back when he was mean, cruel, and suppressing his sense of empathy, but now he’s a sensible person.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re clinging quite hard to my hand.”

“Well, I’m less nervous than I was. At least you’ll be there. But it’s like twenty people. It’s a  _ mob. _ And they’re  _ strangers.”  _

“I know, and that is why I appreciate your company all the more tonight.” He clasps her hand more tightly.

“Well, it’s important to you. These are your friends — people you’ve gotten to know over the past semester. So it’s important to me too.”

“Ah, you are so very obedient! Thank you.”

“But...what if I slip and call you  _ mi Magistre?” _

“You won’t.”

“It’s nice that you have so much confidence in me, but —”

“That wasn’t confidence. That was an order.” Now on the porch of the classics chair’s house, the Magister faces Alison with a smile, one finger lifted like he’s about to give a lecture. “When we are at this party or otherwise in front of my colleagues, you, my Domina  _ carissima _ , will refer to me as  _ Max, _ just as I will refer to you as  _ Alison.” _

“Ah, I see. If you make it an order, then you know I’ll obey. Clever!” Alison nods in approval. This is how most of their kinky play goes. They help each other to be their best selves by commanding each other to be good. Because they want so very much to make each other happy, they do as the other says. Then, because they have succeeded at their chosen tasks, they pride themselves in being the masters of their fates, and everyone is happy.

“Indeed. If I give you a command, you won’t slip up at all — because I know you want to be my good Domina.” He grins at her, the downward-pointing lines of his sagging face creasing upward in satisfaction, as if she has already pleased him with her perfect obedience.

“Oh yes!” Alison gives a little jump of eagerness.

“And so you shall. You shall be my dearest and most obedient Domina — even if I call you  _ Alison _ — and finally all my departmental colleagues will understand how wonderful you truly are!” declares the Magister, ringing the doorbell.

***

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! Max! And Alison!” A White woman answers, beaming on them, as she hustles them into the warm house. “Hi, I’m Sarah Carruthers, Ainsley’s wife. I’ve heard so much about you, Alison! Ainsley!” Turning away, she calls down the hall. “The classics legends are here. I’ll put your coats in the master bedroom, okay?”

We’re legends?! Alison thinks. Shit!

“Hello.” A person with receding ex-brown hair in a ponytail materializes out of apparently nowhere. They’re short and soft, with grey eyes. “Ainsley Carruthers, classics chair. Max.” They nod to him. “Oh, by the way, I just want to let you know that I did indeed get your extensive file. I’ll be reviewing it this weekend.”

“Excellent,” responds the Magister with a businesslike nod. “You’ll find it quite informative.”

“And Alison.” Ainsley’s smile widens. “You  _ do  _ look just like the picture.”

Apparently the Magister talks about his partners all the time, but never showed his colleagues any pictures until they importuned him to draw one of Alison. Ainsley produces that very picture, saying that they kept it because they’d never seen anyone draw like that.

It’s a quick sketch, with the big eyes and wide mouth of the Magister’s caricature dolls. A face comes up from the swirling  _ sfumato  _ of smudgy lines. She has narrow lineaments, eyes both dark and sharp, and a face topped with angled, quizzical eyebrows. The vertical scar near the center of her forehead, a bit paler than her surrounding reddish brown skin, looks like the spark of a thought leaping from her mind. And her hair all around her head spins a halo of itself, magnifying her strength and wonder.

Alison trembles before the idealized image that has so enchanted the classics department. Her eyes sting; her breath shakes up and down her throat, but she’s not scared. She understands that the Magister makes her into what he loves, and what he loves about her is the best of her. There is no way that she can disappoint his friends or even fail him, for his shining confidence in her transfigures her into the brilliant joyful person she aspires to be.

“Hi, Max,” another White woman says to him. She looks about as old as he looks — that is to say, in her late fifties or early sixties. “Were we supposed to dress up? Did I miss the memo?”

“You cleaned the mud from your hiking boots. I believe that counts.” The Magister winks. “May I present to you my partner Alison Cheney? Alison, this is Ellis Bolton-Porter.”

“Alison — that’s a lovely name.” Flipping her long grey braid over her shoulder, Ellis shakes Alison’s hand. “I was almost named a version of that —  _ Alice _ — but my dad insisted that I carry on the family name instead. And now look at me. I’m married to a woman, wearing plaid, and surrounded by cats. And my wife wants more!” She leads them into the living room, where several people, some on a couch, some on the floor, cluster around a coffee table containing a few books, a notepad, and trays of biscuits. They’re translating Christmas songs into Latin. “We can’t figure out if  _ Jingle Bells _ is an imperative or a noun.”

“Hey, Alison,” says Leshonda, the one other Black person in attendance, eating a large Vermont-shaped gingerbread biscuit. She wears a shimmery jumper and silvery makeup. She’s wide and weighty and curvy, with light, sandy brown skin. She surveys Alison from head to toe. “Sequins! I’m kind of into shiny things — maybe you can tell.” She points at her shirt and laughs. “I’m feeling a bit outclassed right now, though.”

Alison, who has no idea how to flirt, much less with people who are hotter than she is, quickly deflects attention from herself. “Um, Max is the one with all the cool clothes. He wore a cape lined with actual ermine tonight. Did you see that?”

While the Magister retrieves his cape so that Leshonda can make appreciative noises over it, Alison meets the rest of the translators. There are four White guys who look like the same person at age twenty-five, forty, fifty, and eighty. Alison can’t retain their names except for that of the youngest, Steve, who is Leshonda’s boyfriend. 

To make matters even more complicated, Alison travels into the den, a smaller room to one side of the living room, and the partygoers who aren’t translating also introduce themselves. Alison smiles and nods, mentally naming them all  _ Sarah, _ except for Magistra Means, that is,  _ Ms. Means the Latin teacher,  _ whose name Alison remembers because she greets Alison with  _ Salve!  _ There are also the partners of the Sarahs: several Steves, including Bald Steve and Eyeball Steve [who has a mechanical eye].

Then Gabby, Ellis’ wife who’s half her age, materializes. “Ah hah, an innocent soul to inflict all my cat pictures upon!” She adds parenthetically, “We have five. Just tell me to shut up if you don’t want to see ‘em, though.” But Alison squees with excitement, so Gabby begins the show.

The oldest Steve circulates a tray of gingerbread, but the Steve in his forties intercepts the last one before Alison can claim it. A stooped and elderly woman snatches up the empty platter. “No worries, no worries,” she reassures Alison in a lower voice. “I get some more in the kitchen.” She has a Greek accent and a nose like the Magister’s, which means that she’s probably Sophia Georgiadis, Greek professor emerita. She and her husband, the oldest Steve, bicker affectionately about whether Sophia should retrieve more food. Alison hopes that, when she’s as old as Sophia and her husband, she too has someone to share such banter with.

Alison, avoiding all the Sarahs and Steves in the den, returns to the Magister and the rest of the translators. They can’t agree on an alternative to  _ Jingle Bells _ .  _ God Rest You Merry Gentlemen _ annoys the agnostics and atheists.  _ Sleigh Ride _ requires Latin equivalents of  _ yoo hoo _ and  _ giddyup _ that no one wants to research.  _ Santa Claus Is Coming to Town _ sounds like a nightmare of the surveillance state.  _ Deck the Halls _ is rejected because it would probably require the subjunctive, which, according to Gabby, only weird people like. The Magister volunteers that he likes the subjunctive. Alison says that he just proved her point.

“How about  _ We Three Kings?” _ suggests Leshonda.  _ “Sumus tres reges! _ There’s the first line right there.” She writes it down with a flourish. “Look at that — we’re farther than we ever got with  _ Jingle Bells.” _

Gabby observes that  _ of Orient  _ has been omitted. The Steve in his forties notices that  _ Sumus reges tres _ doesn’t fit the meter. People argue whether that’s important.

“I’ve got it!” Alison raises her hand, then realizes that, even though she’s surrounded by teachers, she’s not in a classroom.  _ “Sumus reges orientis — _ that puts in  _ of Orient _ and fits the meter.” 

The collaboration continues. “Max said you wrote stories in Latin.” Ellis bends toward Alison. “Is that true?”

“Well, um, I just started a few months ago after like a ten-year break,” Alison says.

“Amazing!” Ellis exclaims. “You should show Angela; she’s always trying to encourage her kids to actually  _ use _ Latin.”

_ “Narratrix artifex est,” _ proclaims the Magister, lifting his chin with pride.  _ She is a gifted storyteller. _ “My incomparable Alison,” he says in words for her ears only. “I’m so very pleased that you’re here.”

A quiver inside Alison responds to the possessive way in which he uses her name, as if he’s holding it close in his cupped hands. She’s his good Domina, bright and brilliant and brave, and his friends are bright and brilliant and welcoming as well. “I am too,” she whispers back.

Then the doorbell sounds. “Oh, that must be Theophany,” says a Sarah from the den. Ainsley requests someone to get the door; Bald Steve volunteers.

Theophany the comic relief? Alison turns to the Magister. “I thought she was sick?” 

He shrugs. “So did I.”

_ “Heus, Maximiliane! Nemesis tua adest!”  _ Magistra Means appears in the doorway with a gloating expression.  _ Oh no, Max! Your nemesis is here! _

“Actually, though,” says the Steve in his fifties, “a nemesis is like your divine retribution and justly deserved comeuppance, so wouldn’t you be more of  _ hers?” _ he asks the Magister.

“I fail to see how asking Ms. Nettles to do her job constitutes divine retribution,” says the Magister blandly.

“Didn’t you catch her doing some kinky shit on her computer, though?” says a Sarah.

“What?!” Alison cries. The Magister never mentioned this. Okay, there’s much more going on here than just the departmental admin’s asinine name for her [cough] associate [cough]. Despite his dismissive characterization of Theophany, the Magister must really dislike her. As a professor, he relies on Theophany to do administrative stuff for him. However, she evidently  _ doesn’t _ do that, and the Magister has no patience for disobedient people who do not meet his expectations. Well, Alison thinks, this’ll certainly be more interesting that I thought.

A Sarah in her thirties enters the living room with a Steve, also in his thirties. Is that the associate? Does that mean—? Alison, standing out of politeness to greet them, throws a look the Magister’s way, seeking confirmation. 

The Magister stands too. If he’s guarding her like this, then he probably anticipates trouble from Theophany, which means that guy  _ is _ her associate. It also means that Theophany really is clueless enough to expect a Black woman to call some random Steve  _ that. _ The quality of the evening suddenly plummets about as fast and far as Alison’s nerve.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” says the latest Sarah. “You’re Max’s partner, aren’t you? I’m Theophany Nettles, the departmental assistant. This is Peter Giles, my Master.” At that, several Steves groan, while Ellis, Gabby, and Leshonda share an eye roll.

Alison just blinks at Theophany. She wants to disappear. No, she wants Theophany to disappear — her and her smirky little associate. Both of them can shrivel up and  _ die _ right now.

“Alison?” guesses the associate, sticking his hand out. He’s of average height, his carefully curated muscularity derived from hitting the gym and the slopes constantly. His smile says that he knows he’s awesome, and he’s just waiting for Alison to realize it. 

Alison flares her nostrils and straightens her spine. Maybe her evil ex, Generic White Boy 47, intimidated her, but that was a decade ago. She’s older now, wiser and stronger. She’s better than this one, this puny Number 48. “Are you kidding me?” she says to Theophany. “No!”

“What do you mean — no?” Theophany screws up her face. “It’s just like  _ partner.” _ People peek in from the kitchen at the developing confrontation, others from the den. There’s an audience on all sides now.

She should know better than to argue semantics with someone who read the dictionary as a kid. “It is not,” Alison informs her.  _ “Mastery _ denotes superiority, as to a servant.  _ Partner _ denotes equality, as to another partner.”

The Magister, right behind Alison, literally backs her up. “Just because you call someone something doesn’t mean that everyone else has to.” Then he steps back, ostentatiously precise, signaling that this minor conflict is worth no further attention.

“Really!” says Eyeball Steve to Theophany. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

Theophany folds her arms at the Magister. “You were laughing at me in the office. Telling me I could call you  _ the Lord of Space _ or whatever.” 

Sophia courteously requests the intruders to stop. Leshonda’s request is less courteous. A Sarah and a Steve pass around _hors_ _d’oeuvres,_ recommending everything loudly, in the hopes of drowning out the intruders. Ainsley and their wife share some wordless communication, at which Ainsley nods and moves off down the hall. The Steve in his fifties inquires if anyone wants to have a go at another carol. Gabby, at Alison’s elbow with an open jug, asks if she can pour the intruders some cider. 

Theophany persists. “Ellis can say  _ my wife, _ and you,” she adds, glaring at the Magister, “can talk about your little threesome, but I can’t say what my partner is to me? Hypocrites.” 

_ “Panem gingibrae?” _ Magistra Means offers Alison and the Magister an escape route into the kitchen the form of more gingerbread. Alison and the Magister take it.

“Oh yeah, that’s it. Just walk away. You always have to be so dramatic. You always have to be the center of attention. Everyone always has to do what you say!” Theophany calls after the Magister.  _ “Copy this, Ms. Nettles. File that, Ms. Nettles.”  _

“Uh, Theophany?” says a Steve. “Maybe you should—”

“She’s told me how you treat her,” says Number 48, who won’t let it go either.  _ “Wash the windows. Wax the floors. On your knees, Ms. Nettles.” _

The Magister stiffens at the last. Alison squeezes his hand. “Ignore them. They’re just trying to rile you.”

“Hhhhhhhhh…” He sounds ready to put out his claws and scratch the intruders’ faces into mincemeat. 

Alison perks up. Scintilla warned her recently that the Magister was  _ sort of a cat. _ Back in the mid-1980s, she said, he ended up on Prraurr, a planet with an airborne virus that turned people into bipedal felines. The Doctor rescued him and tamed him before the virus took hold, but it’s still dormant in his system. 

Scintilla told her all this so that she wouldn’t be alarmed if he started purring and head-butting, which he apparently might do without really realizing it. Once Alison learned that his cattitude wasn’t something kinky, but a sign that he was comfortable around people, she hoped that it would soon manifest. She never expected to hear him hiss, however.

“Wait.” Alison touches him on the shoulder and then bends to his ear. “Max! Max… You are mine; you are my robot, my dearest, most wonderful robot, and you’re the master of yourself. So...master yourself.” 

“Ah,” he says, and she feels the hiss and all the accompanying tension begin to leave him. “Yes. Of course.” With each word, he breathes deeply, calming. “Yours.”

“Yes! Yes! You  _ are _ the master of your temper and the captain of your soul!” Alison pulls back to encourage him with a little smile. “So, because I expect you not to seethe and hiss and put your hackles up, then you won’t, right?”

His eyes sparkle as he replies. “Your wish is my command.”

Seeing her targets disappear, Theophany makes a desperate attack, muttering something about Alison sleeping with her teacher. 

Number 48 chimes in. “Hey, Max, how old is that kid you’re with — thirteen?”

Alison sucks in a breath. She can tolerate a certain amount of bullshit, but she hates people who don’t take her seriously. She grinds her jaw, thinking of how GWB 47 derided her dolls in the same scoffing voice.

“Gingerbread makes great earplugs,” says Magistra Means sarcastically, “especially when it’s soft and just out of the oven.”

The Magister lifts his chin, shaking his head slightly at Magistra Means. “No. I know you wish to avoid conflict, my dear,” he says to Alison, “but this cannot be ignored. They are disrespecting you, and you are mine, so I must defend you.” He spins about neatly, turning back to face the enemy. 

“Wait.” Alison follows him. The Magister, whose face has hardened into severe and dangerous angularity, is about to execute a well-deserved takedown, and she wants to witness this.

Alison and her robot re-enter the room just as Ainsley, carrying two coats, appears from the hall. “I’ve called you a cab; it will be here shortly,” they murmur to the intruders. “It’s time for you to leave.” 

“You two,” says the Magister to the intruders. His voice, hushed, yet somehow sharp, snaps them to attention. “Stop it. You may make asses of yourselves all that you wish, but I forbid you to treat my partner with such baseless contempt. You shall offer her the politeness, forbearance, and respect that she has shown you, or you shall say nothing.”

“You’re the a—” Theophany starts. 

“Ms. Nettles,” the Magister cuts in with a sigh of long suffering, “if you have nothing true nor kind to say, then be silent for as long as you are in this house.” When Number 48 inhales indignantly, the Magister commands him as well: “Mr. Giles, since you’ve said nothing gracious or polite or even halfway civil so far, do us all a favor.” 

“What? Should I switch to fuckin’ sign language?” Number 48 presents two middle fingers.

The Magister continues over him. “Make no sound whatsoever — nor, indeed, any obscene, lewd, hateful, or derogatory gestures, expressions, or body language — until you are out of my sight.”

And they obey him. “You — you — you —” Theophany sputters, unable to utter all the cruel invective and threats she wishes to.

Meanwhile, Number 48 abandons his cocky self-possession. His arms fall toward his sides, even as his face reddens from the effort of controlling them. He can’t, though. The Magister’s psychic compulsion acts on his behalf, rearranging his body into inoffensiveness.

And it’s absolutely noiseless inoffensiveness at that. Number 48’s eyes pop; his lips writhe; infuriated breaths leave his mouth — Alison sees everything, but his actions occur in perfect muteness. She narrows her eyes at him, imagining each glare as a blade that shoots forward, slicing his smug face into ribbons. Serves them right. As for the Magister, he focuses on a garland above Theophany’s head, apparently bored.

“They do what he says!” Sophia remarks. “This is maybe hypnotizing?”

“Nooo…” says the Steve in his fifties, frowning, as he thinks. “There was no introductory part where you actually prepare them for going into a different mental state.”

“Magic!” A Sarah goggles at the Magister.

“This isn’t magic! This is some sort of psychic power bullshit!” Theophany rounds on the Magister. “You forced me to shut up, you — you —”

“Well, someone had to.” Gabby, barely heard, rolls her eyes.

“Please — wait on the porch.” Ainsley and their wife herd the intruders toward the door. 

“Wait a minute.” A Steve frowns at the Magister. “If you told her to shut up unless she had anything kind or true to say, and then she said that it was  _ some sort of psychic power shit, _ is that true? Does that mean that you really  _ do _ have psychic powers?”

The doorbell rings. Alison scurries into the nearest bedroom and shuts the door. “This is why I hate parties,” she says to a bed stacked with coats. Her lower lip trembles and she bites down on it. No crying in public.

Magistra Means and her Steve ask through the door if Alison is okay. Ainsley apologizes to Alison through the door for the whole debacle. Then Leshonda, checking in with her Steve, knocks. Alison mutters something about needing some time.

At top volume, the youngest Steve helpfully summons the Magister, who knocks as an alert, then enters, shutting the door softly behind him and snapping on the light. “Alison?”

She starts violently, even though she sees him and hears him. It’s the right voice — deep and low, with that tender, touching tone that he uses for his dearest Domina — but the wrong name. 

Sure, they’ve been calling each other the wrong names all evening, but this time is somehow worse. A sad shock rings low in her belly; she feels kind of empty. She wants to be someone other than Alison, that mundane person who must always fight, especially with ignorant White people and guys in particular, to be seen as worthy, equal, and even a person in the first place. 

“Did I startle you?” Alison’s robot asks, moving some coats aside and settling on the bed beside her.

“I’m just...not used to you calling me that.” Not gonna cry, not gonna cry, not here, not now, not in front of all his friends...

“Ah, Domina — however I may call you, you are always  _ mea carissima.” _ He adds in a whisper that slips the words directly into her head,  _ “Atque mea obsequentissima.” _

“Say that again. Please — say that again,” Alison begs. “Make me  _ yours.” _

“You are always mine.” Pulling Alison against him, the Magister holds her close. “For as long as you wish to belong to me, you are mine. I know that sometimes you may be shaken in that belief, particularly when cruel people do not respect your sovereignty. I know that, when you feel such doubts, you question whether you might be worthy of being mine, but you always are. Let me assure you — you always are. You are always are, for your worth does not depend on the judgment of others. It depends on who you are at your core. And, at your core, you are  _ mea Domina carissima atque obsequentissima _ , and therefore you are always good.”

Sighing out a breath, Alison pushes the rigid tension from her limbs. Her robot is solid and warm and strong; he can support her now. “And you’d...do that again, right? I mean — if someone was being stupid and rude again, would you — ?”

“—Would I do everything within my power to defend you? Yes, of course! You are so very good and obedient, and you please me so very much that I —” Her robot’s voice hitches for a second. He sounds about to say that he loves her. But no — he never says that he loves anyone, not even his Doctor. “—That I...do the same for you,” he says after a moment, “in the hope that you can understand how grateful and privileged I am to receive what you give me.” Alison wonders if he never says that he loves her because he doesn’t believe himself worthy or capable of love.

With another sigh, Alison fits herself against his side and vice versa. Their shapes complement each other, and they make a cozy whole. The Magister is the first person who has ever defended Alison. More than that, he is the first to insist that she, being his, requires protection. His love and respect for her entail keeping her safe. She’s never had that before.

Alison’s family believes in a rather repressive self-reliance. Her dad was reciting the ultimate  _ stiff upper lip _ poem,  _ Invictus, _ to her at seven. Her mum’s family, having bred generations of badass women, from her great-great-something aunt Florrie, a former Sheffield steelworker, to her own mum, control freak extraordinaire, expected her to fight — and win — all her battles on her own. Indomitable strength and stoicism were supposed to help them transcend racism by showing how much better they were. Or something like that. Instead Alison just wished that someone thought she was worth fighting for and defending and protecting. And now she does.

“You need not fight alone,” says the Magister to his Domina, running his hand down her cheek. “Self-mastery is not a stoic, solitary endeavor. Part of self-mastery is learning your own worth — that you deserve to be safe and whole and happy.” Those are the key words of the contract that the three of them — Alison, the Magister, and the Doctor — signed early on in their journeys: a code of respect, kindness, and honesty through which they could achieve their goals.

“Safe and whole and happy… Yeah.” With a big sigh, Alison hugs him hard. “Thanks,  _ mi Magistre, _ for sticking up for me. That’s...monumental. Thank you.”

_ “Mea Domina carissima atque obsequentissima.” _ The Magister rests his head against her shoulder for a sweet, silent moment. Then, after conferring briefly, they agree to leave the party and revisit the Magister’s friends in better circumstances.

***

“Now, my dear Domina, as much as I know your avowed dislike of Christmas, parties, and Christmas parties, I believe you shall find this holiday gift cause for celebration.” As a sheet of paper ejects from the Magister’s laser printer the Monday after the party, he grabs it and hands it to Alison with a flourish.

Alison, seated in the living room straight out of the 1970s, tucks her legs up on the olive overstuffed sofa and reads. It’s an email from Ainsley, dated that morning, reporting that Theophany Nettles is no longer employed by the University of Vermont, effective immediately. The terse tonelessness of the communication says it all. “Oh ho ho!” Alison chortles. “Did she get  _ sacked? _ Because of what happened at the party?”

“That was not why I had her removed.” The Magister explains that he compiled a comprehensive log of incidents, witnesses, and evidence — the  _ extensive file _ that Ainsley had mentioned when greeting him and Alison at the door — and then waited for the inevitable. 

“Well, good riddance!” Alison makes a spitting noise to the room in general. “You know — I wouldn’t mind hanging out with your friends again, especially now that I know that I’m never going to see Theophany and her associate again.”

“Ah, excellent.” The Magister slides in next to her. “Ellis — that’s Gabby’s wife — emailed too, inviting us to dinner at their house sometime in the new year. She suggested mid-January. Shall I respond in the affirmative?”

“Yeah, please do! I like them, and I’d love to meet their cats.” Slouching back on the couch, Alison sighs happily. “Even with Theophany and her stupid [cough] associate [cough], that party went much better than I expected.” 

“Yes! My colleagues were truly overjoyed to make your acquaintance. I am so very glad that you attended with me, despite your compunctions, for now they know how wonderful you are. You are indeed my most wonderful and my most obedient Domina, and I am so pleased with you!” Wrapping his arms around her, Alison’s robot pulls her into his lap. He holds her just as tightly as she likes, almost too tightly for a deep breath.

Alison tries to lean against his chest. An interesting sort of buzzing sound seems to be coming from him that she wants to investigate. But he keeps nudging his face under her chin. It’s not a kiss (an action much too unhygienic for him), nor is it a sniff. Instead he’s just pushing his face against her.

All at once, Alison understands both the buzzing and the nudging. That’s exactly how Imp, his flying cat, acts when she’s happy and she wants to snuggle. She rubs all over Alison or the Magister, marking them as belonging to her, and she purrs so hard that she vibrates. This is the flip side of that defensive hiss she heard at the party. Her robot is purring! “Wow, Scintilla was right!” she exclaims with a delighted giggle. “You really  _ are  _ head-butting me.”

The Magister springs backward, his eyes round. Awwwww, he didn’t realize he was doing it. “Um...yes...allow me to explain.”

“I know you’re sort of a cat — Scintilla told me — and I don’t care. It’s the cutest thing ever, and I love it.” Alison throws her arms around him and squeezes. “Please don’t stop.”

After a still and startled moment, the Magister squeezes her back, purring with abandon.“RRRRrrrrRRRRrrrrr! Merry Christmas, Domina  _ carissima.” _

“Merry Christmas, _ mi Magistre.” _


End file.
